Rain, Rain
by Momma Jude
Summary: Jude is a young doctor, optimistic in the face of the everyday harsh realities of the Royal Hospital of Fennmont. Hated by his peers, and placed on duty in not-so-well disguised ward for patients likewise disliked, every day is an uphill struggle. Things only get harder when the enigmatic Alvin-a rich, handsome man with a talent for getting in fights-takes an interest in the boy.
1. Chapter 1

_AN: This site doesn't quite allow for the same convenient tagging as AO3, so I do want to note that this story will contain depression, suicidal themes, abuse, an underage relationship, and character death._

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Milla Maxwell. Twenty-two years of age. Her record listed an unfortunate number of visits—beginning from the time she was three, but with immune system complications noted to have begun even before then. This young woman was well known, having been an inpatient for more of her life than not. Of course, a better word would probably be "infamous", in this case; it wasn't much of a secret what this place was for:

For those who spent more time in the hospital than at their own homes. For those who depended on them to live every day of their lives. For those who couldn't be fixed.

It disgusted the young doctor more than he could express, that these people (a part of a "special program", they called it) were treated so differently-like a burden, a weight on society-when they were already deprived of their lives.

Of course, he also knew deep in his heart that his being placed there was no coincidence.

At ten years old, Jude Mathis was accepted into one of the nation's most renowned universities for his far beyond average intelligence. At fourteen he began medical school, and in three years his remarkable grasp of his field had given him the opportunity to work in the very facility where even some of his professors had been rejected after years of dedicated work. He was, by definition, a prodigy

Some would die, some would live. In theory, coming to terms so easily with mortality was as easy as repeating that basic yet profound mantra each day and night. But, in reality, no number of lectures or wise words could have prepared that young man for the twisted reality that lay before him.

He was aware that it would be a nearly hopeless fight-an uphill struggle against jealous peers, paranoid superiors, patients bereft of hope, and by all means life itself.

But he knew, too, that no matter what, it was his duty to fight for them, no matter how hopeless it seemed. Ultimately a doctor could do no more than his best—this was the fundamental principle of everything he had learned, and he held those words close to his heart.

"Good morning, Miss Maxwell," he greeted, doing his best to be confident. He'd done exactly this on the other side of the hospital already for over a year, but there was something nerve-wracking about this being his first real day on his real job. It was definitely a relief to not be shadowed by his superiors for once-Director Rideaux, especially, had a way of making him nervous even about the most basic operations-at the very least. She stared at him for a few moments, blankly like she hadn't heard him speak. 'A seizure', was his first thought, his anxious mind getting the better of him. "Miss Maxwell…?" he finally ventured again, fortunately this time seeming to get her attention.  
"Sorry, good morning." The blonde-haired woman smiled apologetically, looking a bit embarrassed. "I don't recognize you, are you new?"

"New to this department, anyway," he explained, offering his hand for a handshake. "I'm Doctor Mathis."

"Mathis?" She blinked thoughtfully. "Ah, yes, I have heard of you before. I must say, I am truly impressed by you, if what people say is true."

He wasn't sure how to respond, really; he hadn't ever really thought much about how his situation would look to the patients who weren't involved in the more...political side of things. "I hope I can live up to my reputation, if that's the case. So, how are you feeling? Anything out of the ordinary?" If nothing else, she appeared well enough now, and so long as her tests from last night came back all clear she'd be free to go home that night.

Her tired eyes seemed to light up with amusement at the inquiry. "Out of the ordinary? I think that goes without saying," she laughed-albeit with a hint of moroseness. "Nothing stands out, though."

"Even something small could trigger it," he urged, just to be safe. The woman shook her head. "We'll have the results of your tests later, so I'll be back in a bit, in that case."

"Wonderful." Her expression faded once more, and she barely nodded in response when he bowed his head and bid her a good day. Infamous. It was strange, really, because he would have expected much worse out of a serial patient spoken of with such distaste behind closed doors. She was clearly reserved, with good reason, but not unpleasant. She was probably tired of being pitied, though it was hard for him not to feel that way.

As the day progressed, she lingered in his mind. Something about her... as he made his rounds of the others in the wing-though some might be comparable in terms of ailments and afflictions-none really stood out to him like she did. There was a hollowness in her eyes that resonated with him; she was hardly a few years older than him, but still so broken.

It was going to be a long first week, he was sure, and that was just the beginning.


	2. Chapter 2

Rowen J. Ilbert. Sixty-eight years of age. He was a man who had seen two wars in his lifetime, and who had served on the frontlines of both. A brilliant tactician, he had been, and a bit of a legend in the city of Sharilton for his roots there as a humble butler to the local Lord Cline. Jude had never met him, but he'd heard of him many times when he visited his mother's hometown as a young child. It was the sort of name that stuck with him, in the back of his mind, out of sheer respect and admiration, but somehow now it didn't seem to process that such a man was being treated here.

It was the fourth day of his duties. Nothing of note had occurred; Milla had gone home without any further complications, accompanied by her seemingly eccentric sister-Muzet was her name, if he recalled correctly-and he'd fortunately heard nothing since. No deaths in his jurisdiction, nor had Director Rideaux paid any mind to him. Things were going almost too smoothly, not that he would complain, but perhaps that was why fate brought him together with his childhood hero.

The man was old and grey, even beyond his years. That same loneliness he'd seen in Milla, he sensed it in Rowen, too. He hardly came off as a hero in this state, worn down and just... broken. War had taken its toll on him, certainly. They said he suffered from post traumatic stress disorder, a given to say the least, and it was a miracle he could breathe on his own with the state of his lungs. His reputation was a far cry from the young woman, perhaps because he'd fought for Rashugal against both Auj Oule and Elympios, but then again he doubted there was much patriotism in the mixed ranks of hospital staff.

Maybe it was because they thought he would die sooner. It unsettled Jude how accurate that probably was, but there was no desire simply to help people survive; not here, not where healing had become nothing more than a competition.

"Mister Ilbert, good evening." The young doctor smiled, but his weary patient didn't return the gesture.

"Evening, doctor," he greeted with a harsh edge to his voice. "I wasn't aware they allowed your kind to practice medicine."

"'My kind?'"

"Elympions, boy. After what you did to Lord Cline, I can't believe they let you near our wounded." He was half-Elympion, but anyone would know it wasn't them who'd assassinated Cline. That blame fell on Rashugal's former king-a figure he'd been strongly warned against mentioning in Ilbert's presence, considering the history between them.

'Tread lightly,' was his best advice to himself. This man was scarred beyond imagination by whatever it was he'd seen, he was delusional, paranoid. Jude was a new person, moreover a new person who clearly resembled a perceived enemy, and it was his duty to do whatever he could no matter how uneasy he felt. "Sir, I know nothing about all of that. I was born and raised in Rashugal," he reasoned, "during the last year of the war."

He looked over him suspiciously, clenching his hands into loose fists. It wasn't a particularly unbelievable story, but there was no knowing how he would respond. "And what of your parents?"

"A doctor and a nurse."

That didn't put him at ease, but he did visibly relax. "No funny business; I'll have my eye on you," he cautioned, winking at him like he was a child. Of course, in his eyes, Jude was nothing more than a child age-wise.

"So, Mister Ilbert, how are you feeling?"

Before the old man had a chance to reply, there was a loud pounding outside of the examination room and a frustrated cry of, "Sir, please calm down!" from one of the nurses. He glanced warily at the hall, but tried to keep his focus on his patient. He obviously wasn't convincing.

"Go investigate, first. I'll be here when you return; I'm not doing that badly." He chuckled as Jude nodded thanks and slipped silently out of the room, clipboard in hand. Quite a scene was unfolding down the hall, he could see from there, and he hurriedly rushed toward the front desk. Two nurses were attempting to reason with a large, broad-shouldered man wearing a dark suit, and one of them was standing in front of a young girl-she couldn't have been much older than eleven or twelve-who was repeating, "Really, I'm fine!" quietly

"Sir, I'll page the doctor, so please wait here-!"

"What's going on?"

The younger nurse-he felt bad, but he couldn't quite remember the woman's name yet-turned to him hopefully, a smile suddenly crossing her face. "Doctor Mathis! Thank goodness," the nurse gave a sigh of relief. The man immediately turned to face the doctor with a desperate scowl, pointing furiously at the girl.

"My daughter is hurt," he barked. "Clumsy thing fell off her stepping stool when she was cleaning. She cut her shoulder on the counter a few days ago; looks like it got infected."

"I'll be with her in just a moment," he said, his mind still half-occupied with Rowen. He had to finish up in there still, regardless of this man's attitude. Despite the loud protests, he instructed the brunette nurse to take a look at the girl and rushed off.


	3. Chapter 3

Jude, generally speaking, handled stress very well. He'd always had a level head, and growing up in his family's clinic, he really had no choice but to learn how to deal with himself from a young age. He was good at keeping his head down and working hard, if nothing else.

Still, even if he rarely showed it, there was only so much even _he_ could take before he broke, and he for the first time since he'd started medical school he was certain he was nearing that point. He pulled his fingers into a tight fist, unclenching it over and over. He'd known Rideaux would be coming at some point to check in on him. He'd _known it_ , and he damn well should have been prepared for it to be at the worst possible moment. The poor girl had been fine, thank goodness, and with a decent bit of effort he'd gotten Rowen to cooperate, but...

His exaggerated groan filled the silence of the small apartment. He wanted to blame that man-Ortega, was it? Something like that. He'd given his furious, melodramatic retelling of the events to the director whilst the young doctor concluded that Elize's wound was little more than a bruise from her fall-infected, he'd said! Jude had gotten quite a scolding because of that, and with Rideaux he'd learned early on that there was no time to defend himself. ' _Reasonable or not, an excuse is still an excuse,'_ he reminded him, and in this world, that rang very true.

He knew he'd done nothing wrong, and no one had gotten hurt, and it would have been hopeless to try to argue. The whole day felt like some kind of awful, muddled dream, in hindsight.

Jude shut the book that he'd frustratedly discarded beside him and edged it onto the nightstand. No point in lamenting it all night, at any rate. Not that sleep would come easily, but still, work would be even less fun if he didn't even _try_...

As he'd expected, Jude slept horribly. The day started slow, groggy, and long after he'd gotten dressed and and slunk off to work he found himself dreaming of being back in bed.

Today felt off. Even though he was in a daze, dragging his feet through the now semi-familiar halls of the hospital for the better part of the morning, even though nearly every moment including his lunch that day with the clumsy but kindhearted nurse from the day before had gone by in a blur, somehow there was one face he couldn't get out of his head. He was the third patient he'd seen that day—at exactly 7:23 AM, he clearly remembered that fact.

Why, he didn't know. After Milla and Rowen, and despite her injury being rather mundane, the situation could not easily be forgotten with Elize, as well, somehow he felt the man with a dislocated shoulder from a street brawl should have been nothing extraordinary in comparison. It wasn't as though this side of the hospital didn't see common injuries such as this regularly, among the chronic patients, from those with money to spare seeking some kind of "special treatment" or whatnot; even so, he had to regretfully admit to himself that they usually came and went as easily as the night came after the day both from the facilities and his mind.

Still, something about that particular man—Alfred Svent, Alvin as he preferred to be called, twenty-eight years of age—had incited a very deep sense of _anger_ in Jude. It wasn't a feeling he was familiar with for as long as he'd been alive very few things had ever enraged him, with his level head and open mind, though, and that in and of itself only managed to make it worse.

It was in the way that Alvin had worn a cocky grin through nearly the entire duration of their consultation, and that he'd talked so casually about his last injury, a serious concussion from which he had only recently recovered, as though it were meaningless.

That was his first impression of Mister Svent, and it was one which would dwell in his thoughts, for better or for worse, among the other considerably more important ones which he entertained. That night he should have been relaxing, catching up on his much-needed rest, and instead he was lost thinking of a reckless stranger.

He cursed his overactive mind silently, clicking off the power of the television, abandoning what had been his last feeble attempt to distract himself from work, tossing the remote next to the case of his glasses on the nightstand.

Today had caused little but frustration, save for the high point of lunch with that nurse. He wished he could focus on that. After all, she—Leia was her name—had actually been born in his hometown, too, and she had started in the experimental ward early on in her career. Her energy had been very uplifting, and he very much longed for something like the young woman's naturally comforting as he rolled onto his side and pulled the covers over his head as though sleep would come more easily if he hid his face.

He wished it were that simple. Eat, sleep, go to work, come home, rinse and repeat—yes, if only his life were so easy as that.

Thanks to Milla Maxwell, Rowen Ilbert, Elize Lutus, and now Alfred Svent, and who could tell how many more may join that crowd later on, as this had only been the first few weeks of his career in that hospital, he was certain it never would be. It was hard to focus on the quiet lunch with a small-town nurse with all those faces burned into his mind, but damn it if he wouldn't try for just one peaceful night of rest.


End file.
